He presses the HOME button. For a moment nothing happens. Then an electronic voice says, “What can I help you with?”

“Siri, open the dangle-dally app,” the young man says.

“You don’t seem to have an app named dangle-dally. We could see if the App Store has it,” Siri says helpfully.

“Sure, let’s do that.”

As if by magic, the App Store screen appears. The young man taps the button again, and there’s the home page.

“That’s amazing…What was that you just downloaded?”

“Nothing. Just a nonexistent application to fool Siri.” He looks at the screen again and frowns. “Which is not to say your problems are over. This iPad’s been wiped. Those are just the default apps you’re seeing there.”

   “Oh,” you say, disappointed. “Isn’t there anything else we can try?”

“I could run a recovery program. It’ll take at least twenty-four hours, though. Come back in a couple of days and we’ll see what we’ve got.”

You don’t like leaving the iPad, but you don’t really have a choice. “Okay.” Reluctantly, you turn to go.

While you’ve been talking, a middle-aged couple has come into the shop. You’ve been vaguely aware of them whispering behind you, the woman’s voice rising in urgency. Now she says suddenly, “It is her. I’m going to ask.” Putting her hand on your arm, she says, “Excuse me, aren’t you Abbie Cullen-Scott?”

“Yes…Why?” you say, surprised.

“Oh my God! And you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”

“My goodness! And do you mind…I mean, it’s none of my business, but—what happened?”

“What do you mean?” Then you realize. They think you’re the old Abbie, somehow come back from the dead.

“I—well, I don’t actually remember…” you begin.

“You lost your memory!” She turns to her husband triumphantly. “You see? I told you. I always said it wasn’t him.”

“I thought you said it was.” Her husband barely sounds interested. He looks at the man behind the counter. “We’ve come for the Galaxy that got dropped in the tub.”

“No, I didn’t,” the woman insists. She turns back to you. “What caused it, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Perhaps she doesn’t remember that, either,” her husband suggests.

“Let her answer, Steve,” the woman says sharply.

   “Actually, your husband’s right,” you say. “I don’t remember anything about it—”

“But you’re here now!” the woman announces, as though it’s somehow her doing. “You’re back! And with your husband?”

“Honey…” her husband remonstrates, but the woman presses on.

“We signed the petition. Just so you know. He had so much support around here.”

You’re barely listening. It’s just occurred to you that public news of your so-called miraculous return might not fit in with Tim’s plans at all.

“There’s been a mistake. I’m not…” Suddenly the little shop seems terrifyingly claustrophobic. “Excuse me,” you say desperately, trying to push past them to the door.

“She isn’t well!” the woman exclaims. “Steve, call the police.”

“What with?” he says lugubriously. “You dropped my phone in the tub while you were playing Candy Crush.”

“We’re in a phone store!” the woman snaps. “Oh, I’ll do it.” She pulls a cellphone out of her pocket.

“Please, stay here,” she says to you as she dials 911. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

“Are you calling the police?” the young man behind the counter says incredulously. He starts taking phones from the shelves and dropping them into a box.

“You’ve got this all wrong,” you insist. “There’s really no need—” But the woman’s already talking to an operator, giving the address, saying they need to send a police car and isn’t it amazing, she’s found her, she’s found Abbie Cullen-Scott.

15

   You’re standing there, wondering what to do, when your own phone rings. The caller ID says TIM.

“Where are you?” He sounds worried.

“At a phone repair shop.”

“Why? Is something wrong with your phone?”

Now’s hardly the moment to tell him about the iPad. “It was nothing, it’s sorted now. But some people saw me and they’ve called the police—”

“Don’t talk to the police,” he interrupts. “Do you hear me, Abbie? Get out of there. Go west one block, then take a right onto Bartlett—”

“How do you know it’s a right?” you say as you start walking.

“I can see you on Find My Phone. I got worried when you didn’t answer the house phone just now. Go quickly, will you?”

“Tim, I’m so sorry,” you say miserably. “You said not to go out.”

“Don’t worry about that now. Are you moving?”

“Yes. As fast as I can.” You look over your shoulder. The couple is following you, the woman still on her phone, the man lagging behind, embarrassed. In the distance you hear a siren.

   “I think the police are coming,” you add. “What do I tell them?”

Tim sighs. “Tell them the truth. But Abbie—don’t believe everything they tell you, okay? I’ll come and get you.”

“Why? What might they tell me? Tim, what do you mean?”

“It’s complicated—”

“Abbie? Abbie Cullen-Scott?” A uniformed policewoman, short and stocky, absurdly overdressed, with as many bits of equipment hanging off her as a mountaineer, is touching your arm. “Mrs. Cullen-Scott, you need to come with us. We’ll get you looked after.”

FIVE

   It was Darren’s turn to get Tim-lashed, and he was getting the whole nine yards.

“I wanted it seamless,” Tim yelled at him. “I wanted it immersive. And instead, you’ve brought me this garbage.”

“It will be seamless,” Darren said nervously. “It’s still under development.”